Whatever Gets You Through the Night
by SnorkackCatcher
Summary: So how do you cope with losing Sirius Black again? Remus Lupin tries different ways. Because whatever gets you through the night is all right.


_**A/N:** Written pre-HBP, which book left parts of the story looking highly questionable from a canon point of view, and therefore tweaked very slightly to make it technically just about consistent -- if you assume Remus/Tonks didn't start for a while after the end of OotP, and that Harry and Remus weren't going to mention being in touch with each other to anyone. :)_

_The title and last line are from the John Lennon song of the same name, but the story is otherwise unrelated to it.  
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**I**

The goblet stands untouched on the table, as does most of my evening meal. I really should eat and drink. Being merry … that's not going to happen tonight.

When the daylight starts to fade it's easy to decide that it's not going to happen ever again.

I've felt like this before, of course. Most of my early childhood years, in fact. Long years after the end of the war, when people were enjoying ordinary everyday things, like friendship, and love, and being treated like a human being, and I … wasn't.

I'd forgotten what those things were like. I'd decided to ignore even the possibility of them applying to me ever again.

And then for two years, that changed completely. Two years with Sirius back. Someone who understood me. Someone who needed me there for them, just as much as I needed them there for me. Two years when from time to time I was _happy_ even when disasters were occurring all around me. Because the man I thought had betrayed me, the man everyone thought had betrayed us all, was still a true friend.

And then a dark night in the Department of _Mysteries_, not one of which I have the slightest interest in right now. And Sirius was gone again. And this time, not coming back.

I've felt like this before, of course. It should be easy to handle, then, shouldn't it?

It isn't.

One thing I've learned in my life is that pain stays painful. You learn strategies for coping with it, for ignoring it, for feeling it less, but it still hurts you, every time. That's why it's called pain.

The street lights are coming on outside. I drag myself up from the table and draw the curtains. Then I put sealing charms on the doors and the windows. A privacy charm on the room. No-one can get in. No-one can get out.

Another thing I've learned in my life is that you don't need Dementors around to be trapped inside your own thoughts.

It would be easier if I took a dreamless sleep potion. Just like the last few days. But you can't keep doing that for long. The dreams have a way of catching up on you in your waking hours. And tonight – it's not even an option.

It would be easier if _I_ had fallen through that bloody veil instead of Sirius. I wouldn't have to keep on being the one who's supposed to be strong for everyone else. And the one who's falling to bits inside.

I know I'm not going to get much sleep tonight, whatever happens. But not taking my potion has a certain appeal. At least for one night, I wouldn't have to think about what my life is like.

Oh, just listen to me! How pitiful am I, whining to myself about everything I haven't got? I _have_ friends now. I have colleagues. I even have a goal in life – to be rid of the people who ripped apart my world.

Revenge? No, no, no, that's not me. A job to be done. That's all. To bring about the _end of that bastard Voldemort_ and all of his _swaggering, contemptible Death Eaters!_

I Summon the chair from across the room where it landed. I repair the leg.

Just listen to me. It's so easy to hate. Hatred is good. All it can do to you is destroy you from inside. Like pain. That's not so bad if you've nothing left inside to destroy, is it?

I sigh. One more thing I've learned about pain. It makes you innumerate. You lose the ability to count your blessings.

All you can do is wait for it to go away. Get yourself through the day. That's doable. I have things to do, people to see. Then go home … and get yourself through the night.

I've tried various ways to get myself through the night since Sirius … died. Tonight's method will be pain. The "Resistance to Torture" section of the Order training manual says you can use one kind of pain to distract you from another. Tonight will be a good time to test that theory. Well, actually, tonight I have no choice.

I sigh. I reach for the goblet on the table and drain it in one. Disgusting, as always. And now tonight I'll have to remember.

When the pain starts, it's one of the few times in my life I've welcomed it.

It is very painful to turn into a werewolf.

When the transformation is over, I lie under the table, panting. Maybe it was a good idea to take the potion. Or the table, and the room, might be in pieces in the morning. They still might. With a brief flash of my old sense of irony, I wonder if they might have been safer _without_ the Wolfsbane.

This last year, Sirius would sit with me at Grimmauld Place when I transformed. He was the only one I'd trust to see that. He'd seen it all before, back when we were young and carefree and it was very cool to be able to turn into an animal, even if you had no choice. He'd change to his dog form and keep me company. For old times sake. It helped to get me through the night.

Wolves don't cry. They don't know how.

If they knew, this one would be bawling.

Men don't cry, not in our culture. They don't know how.

If they knew, this one would have been bawling for days.

Wolves do howl, though. We're good at that. This one was howling till dawn.

**II**

One good thing about summer is that the nights are shorter.

When you're fighting off depression, that's supposed to help.

Unfortunately, when you have as much to be depressed about as I do, it doesn't.

The day wasn't so bad, considering. Meeting Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the station. Seeing them off for the holidays. Threatening some Muggles on Harry's behalf. Made me feel a bit – just a little bit – better. Pushing a bit – just a little bit – of the pain onto somebody else.

I sigh. Maybe I should start beating up grandmothers next.

Working off my feelings on somebody else does have a certain appeal. It's risky though. You worry if you'll know where to draw the line. And I know where it can end up. I have a clear role model to follow. Or rather, to not follow. A comfort in my darker moments.

A comfort to know that as bad as I feel, as bad as I am, I'm not, have never been, and have no desire ever to be like Severus Snape.

A small part of me realises this is not entirely fair to my erstwhile colleague, who has suffered from pain and loss and hatred himself. It's certainly destroyed him from inside. But right now I don't care. It's hard to see beyond my own pain. And loss. And hatred.

But I don't want to end up like him. _Always_ pushing the pain onto somebody else. If that's possible. I don't believe you can really manage it. I don't believe Severus really manages it, anyway.

I reflect that at least I haven't had to talk to him more than once since … then. And he didn't mention Padfoot. Even Severus has his moments of understanding. Of understanding that at the first hint of a snide remark, I would have hexed him into a spot of grease on the carpet. Not that that would have been much of a change.

I sigh. Hatred again. Well, at least it's a distraction from the pain and the loss. That's good. Who cares about long-term damage? Who cares if it destroys you from inside?

I sigh – again – and put on the lights in the room. I leave the curtains open. I feel a need for contact with the wider world.

I remember Harry's parting look at the station very clearly. I remember how he looked in the Department of Mysteries very clearly, too. Of all the people in that wider world, he's probably the only one who can truly understand how I feel at the moment. Because evidently he's feeling exactly the same way.

But you can't burden a fifteen-year-old boy with your troubles. Especially not the Boy who Lived. Especially not the Boy who Lived and who thinks he can rely on you to be a support for him.

Even in my current low state, I can see Harry has it worse than me.

Hestia Jones, of all people, called round to see how I was this evening. She seemed upset. She tried to talk about Sirius. But she didn't say much. She didn't seem to know what to say to me. We knew her at school. No, **_I_** knew her at school. I have to get used to not thinking in terms of "we".

Again.

I have a sudden longing to talk to Harry.

It hits me suddenly that _now_ I understand how Padfoot felt about him. I never quite did before. It would be like having James back. Just a little. Just enough to feel a little like old times. Just enough to ease the pain.

I pick up a quill and write a note of condolences to Harry. Then I tear it up and start again.

Then I tear it up and start again.

Then I tear it up and start again. And again. And again. And again.

It's past two o'clock in the morning by the time I have a note to send. That's good. I wasn't expecting to get much sleep tonight, whatever happened.

In the end, all I say is

"_Dear Harry._

_Someday soon you'll probably want to talk about Padfoot. Someday soon, so will I. Even though it hurts like hell. Any day that happens, remember I'm there. _

_Yours_

Remus" 

I watch my owl fly away into the darkness. He's quite happy to be up this late.

Taking the dreamless sleep potion has a certain appeal. At least for one night, I wouldn't have to think about what my life is like.

I leave it in the cupboard and retire to bed. One good thing about summer is that the nights are shorter. There's not that much left of this one.

One good thing about the werewolf transformation is that it's physically exhausting. The aftereffects last a day or two. Well, it's a good thing when you feel like this, anyway. The exhaustion helps you sleep. Helps get you through the night.

Oh, Sirius.

Sometimes you don't need to be a wolf to howl.

**III**

I look around the room again as I stumble in. I haven't seen it since this morning. Wow, it looks exactly the same! Except it's night now!

I giggle for no good reason.

I left early. I'm back late. The less time I spend here, the less time I have to brood.

I spent most of the evening in the local pub. They don't serve Firewhisky. But they have plenty of vodka. It works just as well. Just takes a little longer to work on wizards.

They didn't mind me drinking toasts to Padfoot all night. It's that sort of pub. The only thing I have to watch out for is letting the alcohol loosen my tongue. Telling the Muggles I'm a wizard. Or a werewolf.

Come to think of it, they probably wouldn't mind that either. It's that sort of pub.

I know I'm going to regret this in the morning. The hangover from alcohol can be bad. The hangover from the werewolf transformation is worse. Put them together … well, I learned a long time ago never to do that.

Until tonight.

If it gets me through the night, I won't care.

Much.

The letter from Miss Hermione Granger lies on the table. What a really nice kid. What an interfering little madam. One or the other. Or both. I don't know. I'm a little confused right now.

I giggle for no good reason. I don't laugh. Things still don't really seem funny.

She wrote me a long letter of sympathy. All about how sorry she was. How she understands it must be painful for me. How I should try to talk about my feelings.

I wonder what textbook she got _that_ out of?

I sigh. She's got her heart in the right place, Hermione has. Just behind her ribcage. I giggle again.

She's right that it's painful, of course. She's right that talking helps. But she doesn't understand that it has to be the right time to talk. The right situation. The right person. That some things can't be forced. That some things can't be done to order. That some things … just have to be endured.

Dumbledore understands that. Dumbledore understands everything! Or does it just seem that way? Maybe he _doesn't_ understand. Maybe he just _pretends_ to so he can impress us all. Hah! Got you there, Albus!

Maybe the vodka is kicking in. Yes, that seems more likely. That's good.

I talked to Albus today. A bit. He was understanding. He was calm. He didn't try to make me talk more than I wanted. He'd seen it all before. Come to think of it, he was like that in the first war. He'd seen it all before then, too.

I wonder how many times he's been it all fesore?

No I don't then. I wonder how many times he's seen it all before? Come on Mr Vodka. Keep up the good work.

More times than I know. More times than I want to know. More times than _he_ wants to know, probably. He was fighting Voldemort before I ever knew him. He was fighting Grindelwald before I was even born. Don't ask me how he stays calm. Don't ask me how he does it.

I wish I knew how he did it. Maybe you get that way with age.

Maybe I don't want to get that way. Maybe I can't handle losing any more of my friends.

Maybe I just can't handle losing them twice.

I have a sudden longing to talk to Peter. A sudden and entirely unexpected longing.

What did you think when you heard Padfoot was dead, Peter? Did you care? You must have done. You must have felt some of the same pain as me. Not as much. But it's one more link to your past finally gone. One more link to the time when you were a boy. When Voldemort hadn't ripped your world apart. When you were happy.

Are you happy now, Peter?

We're the last men standing. I wish I could talk to you. For old times sake. Just to be called Moony again one last time. Just for a few hours. Before I kill you.

You dirty little rat.

I try to giggle. The vodka does its best to help me. But I can't. I feel a sudden surge of hatred. For the boy I knew. For the man I didn't.

Hatred is good. Oh no it's not. Oh yes it is. Oh hell. Whatever.

That's the bad thing about alcohol. It confuses you. It knocks away your inhibitions. It doesn't actually hide your feelings. Actually, it brings them to the surface. Until you drink enough to knock you out completely, of course. At least that gets you through the night.

It seems that I haven't drunk enough yet.

Now where did I put that bottle of Firesky … Fryerwhish … Wirefriskey … oh hell, the good stuff?

**IV**

I lock the door and the windows and draw the curtains. It's been a long day. It'll be a long night. Oh well, I'm not expecting to get much sleep tonight. Again.

This morning was bad. A hangover cure potion helps with the headache and the nausea, but it doesn't make up for the broken sleep. Or the loss of appetite. And it actually tastes worse than Wolfsbane. Maybe because it literally contains hair of the dog.

Just _once_, I'd like to drink a potion that tastes of strawberries and cream.

This afternoon wasn't up to much either. I wrote back to Hermione. I've decided she's a really nice … interfering little madam. I was polite. Kindly. Supportive. My usual self. The one who's strong for everyone else.

I really don't want to tell her I'm falling to bits inside. Even when I'm sure she knows anyway. She's got her heart in the right place, Hermione has. And she isn't exactly short on brains, either.

I haven't heard from Harry. I don't suppose he feels any better than I do. I don't suppose he wants to talk about it either.

I make a meal and eat it. I really must eat and drink. I still can't see myself feeling merry ever again. That scares me. A little. It doesn't scare me a lot.

_That_ really scares me.

At least there was an Order meeting this evening. Things to do, people to see. Molly, and Arthur, and Hestia, and Minerva being sympathetic. Poor Tonks to be sympathetic _to_. Plans to make. Ways to strike back. Ways to use the hatred and anger that have been festering in me since … since Sirius died.

Action would help. I'd welcome a visit from the Death Eaters. I'd welcome a chance to strike back. A chance to _use_ the pain, and loss, and hatred. Get the poison out of my system. Before I grow to be like them.

Well, at least before I grow to be like Snivellus Snape. No, _Severus_ Snape. _Not_ Snivellus. He's a friend now.

Oh sod it, who am I kidding? Not him. Not even myself. He's a _colleague_ now. But we really can't stand each other.

_He_ wasn't sympathetic. He made a couple of snide remarks at the meeting. Blamed Padfoot for not staying at home when the call came. He's lucky. You can't hex your _colleague_ in front of half the Order.

He's lucky Prongs stopped him before he got to me that night in the Shrieking Shack. The idea of tearing Snivellus' throat out actually seems quite appealing right now. Maybe I should have thought of it three nights ago.

Maybe not. It's so easy to hate. It destroys you from inside. If you've anything left inside to destroy, that is. I'm not quite sure if I have.

That scares me too.

I sigh. I concentrate on letting the feeling of hatred slide past. Or rather I avoid concentrating, and let the feeling of hatred slide past. Let the pain, the anger slide past. Let all feeling slide past.

I've been doing a lot of that lately. It's a basic survival technique. When it isn't the right time to talk about it. The right situation. The right people. I really don't want to be falling to bits in front of the whole Order. Even when I'm sure they know anyway.

There's a tapping on the window. I stiffen and reach for my wand. I stand on the far side of the room and wave it to draw back the curtains, ready to start casting rapid-fire stunners at the first sign of trouble.

It's only an owl come to deliver a letter. I lower my wand again.

A _snowy_ owl ...?

Hedwig!

I open the window quickly to let her in. She flutters down onto the table and starts nibbling at the remains of my ham sandwich. I grab the letter off her leg, at which she hoots indignantly. Hard luck, my feathery friend.

It seems Harry had the same problem as me. He took a long time deciding what to say too. Poor kid.

"_Dear Remus._

_Thanks. Yeah, someday soon I probably will want to talk about Padfoot. Everybody says so. Don't know if it's yet, though. But I'd like to talk to somebody who isn't Dudley about something. Any day you want to drop round to Privet Drive, I'll be there._

_Yours_

_Harry_"

It sounds like Miss Granger has been writing to him as well.

It sounds like he's having the usual barrel of laughs stuck at Privet Drive. I make a mental note to ask Albus if we can't get him away from there much quicker this year.

I scribble a note telling Harry I'll drop round tomorrow and send Hedwig back with it.

As I try to get to sleep, I realise what I'm doing. Subconsciously, I'm hoping to burden the Boy who Lived with my troubles. Terrific.

I sigh. Maybe I should start weeping on the shoulders of five year olds next.

Harry's probably hoping to burden _me_ with _his_ troubles. That would be fair. Even in my present low state, I can see Harry has it worse than me. He'll expect me to be polite. Kindly. Supportive. My usual self.

I don't know if I can do it. That scares me more than anything else.

Oh well, I never was expecting to get much sleep tonight.

**V**

I lock the door behind me and throw my robe over the sofa. It's been a long day. Yet again.

It was the first time I'd seen No 4 Privet Drive in daylight. I think I liked it better in the dark.

I smile briefly as I remember the Dursleys' reaction to me. They obviously remember what was said at the station. I didn't have to do more than smile at them and ask if Mr Potter was in. You'd think I'd told them I was a Death Eater come to drag Harry away and kill him.

The smile fades. If I'd told them that, they just might have welcomed me with open arms. I feel an irresistible urge to casually mention that I'm a werewolf next time I call.

I resist it.

Harry wasn't looking too bad, considering. We talked for a long time. We talked about a lot of things. Voldemort's plans. Quidditch. The best technique for casting rapid-fire stunners. The Dursleys' reactions. Ways to deal with Draco Malfoy and his two pet gorillas. Whether Ron and Hermione will _ever_ stop arguing long enough to get together.

We didn't talk about Sirius, except once or twice by allusion. That subject was the Hippogriff in the corner of the room.

Even so, I think Harry felt better for it. That's good.

Unfortunately, I think I feel worse for it, if anything. That's bad.

I was polite. Kindly. Supportive. My usual self. The one who's strong for everyone else. I couldn't bring myself to burden the Boy who Lived with my troubles. To tell him I'm falling to bits inside.

Oh well. Maybe next time I'll talk about my feelings. Harry just wasn't the right person. Not at this time. Not in this situation. We'll talk again, maybe. We _won't_ talk of this to anyone _else_. Until then, I'll just have to find some other way to get me through the night.

The doorbell rings. I stiffen and reach for my wand, before realising that Death Eaters aren't usually that polite. I put a one-way transparency charm on the front door this morning. No-one can see in. I can see out. I still approach it with caution.

It isn't a Death Eater. Not unless they're cunningly disguised as Hestia Jones. And she gives me the Order passwords. I lower my wand again.

I invite her in. I have no idea why she, out of all the Order, should be calling round. Twice in four days. I hadn't seen her more than twice in fourteen years between the wars.

I have a nagging suspicion that maybe Miss Granger has been writing to her about me.

She tries to talk about Sirius. But she doesn't seem to know what to say to me. She talks around the subject without ever quite coming to the point. Again. I'm polite, just about. I'm really not in the mood for this. But I'd still rather have her company than not. I still feel a need for contact with the wider world.

Then, without warning, she blurts out: "Er – you and Sirius – you weren't erm – you know – _together_?"

I feel my jaw drop. Literally. I thought it was just a saying. I never knew it actually did that.

I splutter, trying to find a way to answer politely. She digs the hole she's in a little deeper. "Because – you know – he'd changed – and this year – you were always at headquarters together – he never really talked to me much –"

For some reason, it's this statement that finally makes me explode. "Why in the NAME OF MERLIN'S GREAT-AUNT FANNY WOULD HE TALK TO _YOU PARTICULARLY_!"

She hastily tries to explain to me. Still going strong with the excavation charm.

I explain to her what things were like. Well, all right, I bellow at her.

I … er, explain about ten years of being as close as brothers. Twelve years of hating the very memory of those years. Two years of having your best friend back. One year of being stuck in a house you hate. Far too many years of being a werewolf who practically everybody hates.

How having your best friend there helps you cope with these things. How you naturally gravitate to that best friend's company.

A wise man once told me that you shouldn't feel _too_ guilty if you unload on somebody like this. They might not be the only ones annoying you. It's just their hard luck they were the one to set you off. But you won't actually give them more than they deserve. You'll know where to draw the line.

He told me that when I spoke to him the other day. I don't know if it came from experience. Probably it did. He isn't exactly short on that. He's seen it all before.

I draw the line when Hestia bursts into tears. I feel a little guilty at the sight. But not too guilty.

She gulps and apologises. She says she didn't mean to accuse me of anything. She didn't mean to insult me.

_That_ didn't insult me, Hestia. No concern of mine. Hell, some people hook up with non-humans. Giants. Veela. Even werewolves. But you misread our relationship so badly. Misread it as something much _less_ close than it was.

_That_ insulted me.

I sit down next to her. I feel a little guilty. Not too guilty. But enough to mutter an apology.

A thought strikes me. I ask her – again – why Sirius should have talked to her particularly. But rather more politely this time. She gulps and tells me.

I feel my jaw drop. Again. It must be getting used to it.

_They_ were together. For six months. Six months before the end of the war. I never knew. Padfoot never told me. He never told _anyone_, as far as I know. I stare at her helplessly.

Well, yes, Hestia, very well, _that_ would indeed be why he might have talked to you particularly. Yes. Right.

I know why he never told me back then. I don't like to remember those days. But I do. More than I want to. You didn't dare trust anyone. You _didn't_ tell anyone anything about people you cared for. Even your best friends.

Especially best friends that you thought might be traitors.

I think I know why he never told me since then. He didn't like to remember those days either. Of course I forgave him for thinking me a traitor back then. He forgave me for thinking him a traitor for twelve years. But it's not something you like to remember.

Much better to remember the time when you were a boy. When Voldemort hadn't ripped your world apart. When you were happy.

I think I know why he avoided Hestia, too. She would have been a constant reminder of those days. But after twelve years in the company of Dementors, only the strongest feelings remain. Ten years as close as brothers leaves deep roots. A six month wartime affair wouldn't. There'd be no feeling left. Just regret that there wasn't. Just awkwardness. Just pain, every time you were reminded.

Oh Sirius.

I suddenly realise that I'm crying, too. Men do cry. To hell with our culture.

I realise that Hestia's still crying. We cling to each other desperately. I feel a sudden longing to talk to her. She's obviously been longing to talk to me for days.

And we do. We talk. And talk. And talk. About Sirius. Our feelings. Our pain, and our loss, and the hatred we try not to feel for those who caused it. Old times. The last year. The last fortnight. About anything and nothing and everything.

It's the right time to talk about it. The right situation. The right person.

It's past two o'clock in the morning by the time we fall quiet.

One good thing about summer is that the nights are shorter. When I wake, I can see the first glimmers of the dawn. I get up carefully, and quietly draw back the curtains a few inches. I don't want to disturb Hestia just at the moment.

I don't regret this now it's morning. I'm actually not sure what our reasons were. For Sirius. For ourselves. For company. For comfort. It's a complication. But not one to worry about.

The sun starts to rise in earnest. The row of terraced houses where I live slowly starts to take shape. I definitely like it better in the light. A new dawn. I got through the night.

With a brief flash of my old sense of irony, I decide to treat this as symbolic.

Being merry … well no, that's still not going to happen tonight. But I can feel that something has shifted inside. I can, finally, see it happening again eventually. Things still don't really seem funny. Not yet. But I can see that they will do.

That's good. That's very, _very_ good.

Last night I talked about my feelings. Helped Hestia do the same. To ease our pain. To push some of it onto somebody else willing to be a support. To stop us being trapped in our own thoughts.

I resolve to talk to Harry again soon. To be my usual self. I feel confident I can do it now.

I don't need to burden him with my troubles. Unless he wants to be burdened with them, of course. He _does_ have that saving people thing. That's good. It might stop him being trapped in _his_ own thoughts. It might ease his pain. Or it might not. I don't mind either way. Poor kid. Whatever gets him through the night.

Whatever gets you through the night is all right.


End file.
